


Killing me softly (with his song)

by TheTimeTravellingHufflepuff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Gen, Musician Sirius Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24427297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTimeTravellingHufflepuff/pseuds/TheTimeTravellingHufflepuff
Summary: Four ficlets about musician!Sirius and Fabian
Relationships: Sirius Black & Fabian Prewett
Kudos: 1





	Killing me softly (with his song)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by:  
> *Killing Me Softly (With His Song), bu Roberta Flack  
> *Downtown, by Petula Clark  
> *Bring Me To Life, by Evanescence  
> *Let It Go, by Idina Menzel  
> \------------  
> Translation of four of my ficlets (originally written in French)

Fabian had entered the bar somewhat by accident. He had a bad day and needed something to distract him; a glass or two should do the trick. It was the first time he had set foot in the establishment and did not know what to expect. He couldn't have asked for more.

In appearance, it was a very common bar: a counter, a few tables that seemed to have been hastily arranged, dim lighting and far too much cigarette smoke. The difference with the bars he sometimes frequented was the little platform at the back of the room. It was empty when Fabian entered and he hadn't paid too much attention to it.

After about twenty minutes, he noticed a young man sitting on the stool which sat enthroned on the small stage, a guitar on his knees. He did not appear to be more than sixteen or seventeen; though he probably had to be of legal age if he could play in a bar.

When the boy started to sing softly, Fabian was surprised; he didn't expect a punk-looking teenager to perform such a melancholy, almost bluesy song. He didn't recognize the song but it seemed strangely familiar to him.

And he understood. He understood why it was so familiar. The words, the emotions, everything about this song expressed what he felt. The song of the mysterious young man echoed in him. It was his life, his most intimate thoughts. How the teenager was able to express what he, Fabian, felt, what he thought, he had no idea, but there, in the middle of this bar, he felt exposed.

Fabian felt sick, feverish, nauseous, but could not help looking at the young musician, listening to any word that escaped his mouth. He hoped simultaneously that the teenager would stop his song, stop revealing to the world the most intimate, most secret thoughts of Fabian - those that even his twin didn't know - and at the same time, prayed that the song would not end, that the incredibly hoarse yet gentle voice of the singer would never be silenced. The words, the notes, that the song embroidered eased his sorrows, his pains; he forgot everything. No, he did not forget; he remembered everything, but it didn't matter, nothing else mattered anymore. He no longer suffered. As long as the song continued, he wouldn't suffer anymore. Was it possible that this young man who seemed to understand him so well had magical powers? Was his song a kind of spell, a magic remedy that soothed pain and misery? Was it possible?

The young singer looked up from his guitar and looked in his direction. It was as if Fabian was transparent; absorbed by his song, the young man did not see him, seemed cut off from the outside world. Fabian could not take his eyes off this mysterious adolescent. Who was he? What had he experienced to express melancholy and despair so well? And his eyes ... His eyes filled with pain. No one should ever have such a look, and certainly not someone so young.

Fabian felt tears trying to escape. It was too much. It was unbearable. This song was going to kill him; the young man's desperate look was going to kill him. Gently, painfully. Slowly the words, the notes, which now flowed through his veins would go up to his heart and stop it.

Then the song came to an end and Fabian was able to breathe again; still laboriously, but he didn't feel like he was going to die anymore. He wiped the tears that had managed to slide down his cheeks and watched the young singer smile slightly at his audience before leaving the stage. Fabian stood up without thinking and walked, in a daze to the teenager. He had to know more.

_________________________________________

Once again, Sirius had argued violently with his mother and had slammed the door of their mansion. Once again, his furious steps had led him to a neighbourhood that his parents disapproved of, a neighbourhood he had learned to appreciate, in which he felt free. Over the months, he had gotten to know the locals, had discovered the small shops, had explored the dark and fragrant alleys. He could only imagine what his mother would look like if she learned that he was friends with a prostitute or that he happened to help the butcher transport the fresh carcasses to his cold room.

Sirius loved this small working-class neighbourhood. Above all, he loved the little pub, the Leaky Cauldron, where he was always welcome. Tom, the boss, had invited him to come and take shelter from the rain the first time Sirius had fled his mother and discovered this neighbourhood so different from the one where he had always lived. Since then, he regularly came to visit the old bartender, sometimes to help him serve, sometimes just to chat. It was only recently that Tom had offered him, throughout a conversation, to take advantage of the open stage. Although he was not shy, he had hesitated for a long time, he had never sung in public and only his best friend, James, had heard the songs he was writing in the privacy of his room. Weren't his musical lamentations, his doubts, his fears, his sorrows, his most secret thoughts going to overwhelm the warm atmosphere of the small establishment?

Once again, Sirius had argued violently with his mother, but before slamming the door of their private mansion, he had grabbed the guitar which he had bought out of defiance, a few years earlier, with the money which was to be used for his violin lessons (which he had abandoned against the advice of his parents who had enrolled him there when he was only four years old). He didn't know why, but that day he was ready to go on stage.

The Leaky Cauldron was almost deserted when he entered it. He breathed in the air filled with cigarette smoke and smiled; he was at home here. He went to greet Tom and ask him if he was still okay with him singing. The only response he received was a toothless smile and a nod towards the stage. Slightly anxious, Sirius nonetheless made his way towards the small platform on which he climbed before settling on the stool intended for musicians or occasional poets who came to declaim their verses, not always very well written, but none of the regulars of the pub judged, here, everyone was free to express themselves, even awkwardly; this stage, open to all, was a sort of haven, a place where everyone was free to be themselves.

Sirius glanced at Tom one last time and he started to play the first notes of one of his compositions, not daring to look up at the limited audience, in front of which he was for the first time in his life. Eyes anchored on the strings of his guitar, he took a deep breath and started his most personal song; one he had never made James listen to. He had kept it a secret until that day. He didn't know why it was this one he had chosen for his stage debut; he had put so much of himself into the writing of this song.

Soon he forgot that he was not alone in his room, in his little haven of peace, the only place where he really felt safe. He forgot and his voice grew louder, more emotional too. It became his song, the notes became emotions, fears, sorrows, doubts, pains. He was completely immersed in his music as if locked in a protective bubble that cut him off from the outside world. He no longer saw the pub, he no longer heard the noise of glasses, nor smelled the cigarettes. Although he had raised his head, he did not notice the man who did not let go of his gaze, eyes clouded, cheeks rosy, breathing laboured.

Then, the last note and the return to reality. Sirius shyly smiled at the few people present and left the stage to join Tom, but before he reached the bar, a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned around and found himself facing a young red-haired man whose cheeks were marked with traces of recently shed tears.

\----------------------------

Fabian had approached the young man in a daze, without knowing what he was going to say to him. Without realizing it, he had put his hand on the shoulder of the young musician who turned and looked at him, curious.

"Can I help you?", asked the teenager after a few long seconds, when Fabian stayed silent.  
"No, I ... I just wanted to thank you for this song; it was beautiful. Moving. Painful too. And surprisingly familiar."  
"It's impossible, it's the first time I sang it and... Are you accusing me of plagiarism because..."  
"No.", Fabian interrupted. "What I wanted to say is that it spoke to me as if it expressed my own feelings, my own experience. It's a powerful song that you wrote there. Extremely deep, especially for someone so young."  
"Shit happens to young people too... And you don't look that old, so if it really spoke to you, you know it as well as I do."  
"Life is not always kind, indeed. Let me buy you a drink to thank you for this song. Although the emotions it brought up were not the most joyful, it did me good."

Some fruit juices ("You are a minor, Sirius, and I have had enough to drink this evening.") later, the two young men had met and shared their painful experiences, their doubts, their sorrows, had even exchanged certain wounds they had kept secret to this day, never having found the person who could really understand, not even Gideon or James.

They had left after several hours of discussing their lives, making promises to meet in the same place a few days later. When he arrived home, Fabian felt more alive than he had been in a long time. Sirius, who had only been a stranger a few hours earlier, had extended a hand to him in the form of a song; a song, a hand which, it seemed to him, had brought him back to life. Of course, his doubts, his sorrows, his wounds had not disappeared, but the words of the young man had awakened something in him that made him feel alive again.

\---------------------------

Sirius stormed out of the Black mansion but this time he was determined never to set foot in the golden prison he was raised in and from where escaped the furious cries of his mother who enjoined him to return immediately.

His bag, containing some clothes and the money he had saved for months, on his back and his guitar in hand, he walked away with a determined step, sending the snow flying around his ankles. It was over, never again would he come back, never again would he have to keep his thoughts to himself, never again would he have to hide who he was. He was not the perfect young man Walburga and Orion Black wanted him to be; he was not the yes-man that Regulus was, he was not the religious fanatic that his cousin Bellatrix was, he was not the white supremacist that his parents were. He was angry and rebellious, passionate and open-minded, creative and loyal. He was Sirius Black and he was free.

For too long, he had tried to follow the rules imposed by his parents, too long he had kept silent, had hidden behind the image of the perfect little heir. For too long he had gritted his teeth and pretended to be another, smiling falsely, choking on the cries he was holding back. Never again.

The streets of London were silent, as if the snow covering the asphalt had soundproofed the city. Sirius could only hear the screech of his footsteps and the heavy breath coming from his lungs. Each step taking him a little further from the Black mansion made him a little calmer while reinforcing his determination to finally live his life for himself. He was free from the harmful influence of his family and fully intended to never find himself under the influence of his parents again, especially his mother's.

Like each of the previous times he had fled, he headed for the Leaky Cauldron, but for the first time, he was intending to take a room there; his parents would never think of going to look for him in such a place if they wanted to take him back home; which he doubted they wanted. He was sure that after having exhausted his stock of insults against her eldest son and threatened Regulus with the worst torments if he thought of following in his brother's footsteps, Walburga had already taken steps to disinherit it. By now, she was probably destroying all traces of Sirius' very existence, while Orion had a drink (or ten), indifferent to whatever happened to his elder. Only Regulus would worry about what was going to happen to his brother, but not enough to say or do anything, the coward.

Tom welcomed him with open arms, no questions asked, which was why Sirius was so grateful. Lily, her prostitute friend, who had always been extremely perceptive, immediately hugged her and told her how proud she was of him, of his courage. He had promised not to cry, but Lily's words undermined his determination.

He was finally free. Free to live his life as he saw fit. Free to be who he wanted to be. Free.

It was time.


End file.
